Story Title: Loathing Love
Author: Hawk Martin
Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy, Giles, or Spike…but I wouldn't mind it if I did. At least the Spike bit…
Dedication: To Irish whiskey, of which got jealous about the dedication to Irish coffee.
A/N: I wasn't originally planning on writing a companion to Love Hatred, but I figured it'd be a bit interesting to hear Spike's POV on Buffy. Make it equal. Plus, I wanted to write in a more sarcastic, bitter tone. So, if I nailed Spike, awesome. But if I didn't…I tried. Changed the original line using 'wanker' to prat, after a review.
Summary: He thinks she's a bloody prat. She probably doesn't even know what a prat is, which just makes her even more of one. All quip answers this and adorable innocence that--it makes him sick. Always has have to have the last word--it's like a control issue with her.
Notes: Italics are sarcasm—intensely so.
Rating: PG-13 for swearing (Brit curse words, more so than American) and sexuality.
Warning: The monkeys are coming…the monkeys are coming…
~"And
since you know you cannot see yourself,
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,
will modestly discover to yourself,
that of yourself which you yet know not of."—William Shakespeare~
He thinks she's a bloody prat. She probably doesn't even know what a prat is, which just makes her even more of one. All quip answers this and adorable innocence that--it makes him sick. Always has have to have the last word--it's like a control issue with her. She's right, he's wrong; she's top, he's bottom.
And it's driving him mad.
It's really all of her fault, anyway. She's the one that comes to his bed every night--not him. Well, all right, he does go to his bed, but he sure as hell doesn't do it after her, and definitely not in black lingerie, just barely hidden by even skimpier clothes. Nope, not him. Of course, that doesn't stop him from glancing over at that black lingerie every once in a while.
But that's not the point.
He used to think that with a swig of whiskey and a long drag of one of his cigarettes, he'd be through with her. He could just think of good ol' Dru--the way she moved, the way she smiled--and not think of the puffter of a Slayer, Miss Buffy-Kick-Your-Arse-And-Have-It-Be-Pleasurable-Too. No--Dru was one for him. She's smooth, graceful. She glided over everything, with those perfect fingernails and small, innocent grin. Even though she was anything but innocent. Dru was everything he needed; so in Hell's name didn't she feel the same way?
Makes his blood hot, sometimes. Well, if he blood that could circulate and all that bit. Which pisses him off too. Being dead pisses him off. He'd give nothing more than just to lie in a coffin and not feel a goddamned thing. Though, Spike thinks coffins are a tad offish. He figures the dead don't mind; but he would. Being claustrophobic and all.
She'd probably laugh at that. Would roll her eyes and smirk, obviously amused by his weakness. The Great and Mighty Spike, afraid of small places? Probably say something crude like: how would he be able to fit inside of her, then, without getting a bit nervous? Bitch. He scowls at that. Just thinking about what she could do infuriates him.
...Bitchy bitch.
She's so...she's nice to him. That's what drives him up a wall. That bloody dafter treats him better than Drusilla ever did--ever could. She's nice to him, as if he deserves it. And she just acts like it's only natural, like she should treat all soulful bleached out vamps this way. Even though he knows she'll always love that softie, old Angel more than she could ever love him. It makes him sigh or punch a wall—he hates that bastard. Hates for everything Angel's done to him; everything he didn't do. Always loved to walk away, scot-free, as if by doing so that made him even more of a hero. And he was, always, in her eyes.
He's tempted to just let her go, follow her Prince Charming into the bright horizon, until death do they part. …Well, not death, but in the general sense of apocalyptic kittens and ferocious blood-sucking fiends, and whatnot. But, Spikes supposes, that if they said all that when marrying two lovebirds, the parents—probably bleedin' Catholics—would have a kitten. He'd almost go to the wedding, just to see that.
Sometimes he gets the impression that she's just sticking around to unwind. He knows that she could never truly love her—he's so damn off the deep end, anyway—but...he just wishes that she could find it in her heart to at least like him. Give him something to hold onto, for God's sakes. She comes, late at night when all evil is loose and he's more awake than even the morning's taunting sunlight can pray for, and never says a word. Buffy just…comes. Pulls him close to her, loose fabric barely separating their hot bodies, and she takes control. If he chooses to fight back, that's his right. But she's the one with the power—not him. And she wants to make that very clear to him.
Even when he's inside of her, bodies moving in the same, fast rhythm, she's still the one pushing up against him. She's the one, always. First and always will be. Which is fitting, Spike has decided. She's the first the one he ever really felt…close to, spiritually. Hell, a little while ago he wasn't even sure what that word meant—until now. Now, he wishes that he could sit her down, and tell her what 'spirituality' means to him. He wishes that instead of her always being in control; her always being on top, he could just take that pain from her shoulders and let her forget what power and control and evil even is. But he can't. And he just has to accept that.
Like he just has to accept the fact that she doesn't love him.
He loves her, though. With every dead fiber in his fucking being, he loves her. He loves her. He's screamed it, said it, breathed it—everything. She knows how he feels; how could she not? She still comes, doesn't she? Maybe she needs him to love him; maybe she needs someone to be on all hands and fours for her, to prove to her that she's still on top. Because he bets that she's not so sure now. It gives him a flicker of triumph, a little ray of pride when he thinks of how she's so unsure of herself. She's broken too.
They're not meant for one another—he won't lie to himself. The whole concept of 'soul mates' is rubbish, really, and he's seen it first hand a thousand and more times. No—he knows that in the end, she'll move on and he'll stay the same, as he has done his entire…death. But then, he always knows he'll never find anyone like her again. He probably won't ever feel this way either—like a true man, even if he's not. She's the only one that could ever do, and she's the only one that ever will.
He doesn't hate her, not like he wants to. He doesn't hate that he loves her either, even though he could. He hates himself, hates that he's capable of love in general. He hates the slim arch of her neck, the soft determination in her soul. He hates that when night comes and they meet—mate—again, he's still the only one doing it for love.
They aren't soul mates, Spike knows that. But she's the only one he'll ever love as much as he does, and he's the only one she'll ever hate.
"Spike?"
"Yeah, Buff?"
"I've got something I want to tell you."
